The art of camping

After a few weeks living in a basic campervan, I now feel we can count ourselves as seasoned campers. We have perfected the art of cooking on both a tight budget and a single-ringed gas stove; we can sniff out a free campsite and spot a drinking water tap a mile off; and we don't think twice about putting on woolly socks with our flip flops to fend off the sand flies and evening chill.

Our days start by putting away the bed (stacking up the three foam mattresses and folding the duvet), putting on the clothes from the day before (why put on fresh clothes if you aren't clean?!) and then making breakfast. We sit on our fold-out camping chairs in the dewy grass, often surrounded by trees and mountains, miles away from anywhere. Then it's back on the gravel road to hit the main road and start our day of activities, filling up on petrol, water and food along the way.

There are no showers at the Department of Conservation (DOC) campsites, just a vault toilet, sometimes very clean, often not. And there's flies, lots of flies. I've learned that holding your breath to block out the smell only works if you are quick enough; a head torch should be used carefully as, really, you don't want to see too much; and hand sanitiser is a gift from the gods.

On a slightly different note, I've also learned that red wine makes you forget that this is the fourth veggie chilly you've eaten this week; sand flies and mosquitoes will find their way through the smallest gap; and you can never read too many books in a week.

Camping can be quite a lonely affair, especially in the wilds of New Zealand. However, we do get to meet some great people in the busier campsites, from all walks of life. One night when camping by a river, we had finished dinner and were onto our second glass of red, when a woman starts yelling for help. We jumped up and soon saw what the problem was: from where we stood it looked like their caravan was going up in flames.

Med runs over while I run round the campsite, shouting for a fire extinguisher.

Soon, most people are out of their vans or tents and gathering to watch. It turns out their ancient gas lamp had set on fire in the woman's hands, inside the caravan, but luckily she had managed to throw it out. They were very lucky as the flames that shot up into the sky managed to miss the car and caravan by a whisker.

We all watched as it burnt out; people from all across the world coming together to stare at the demise of a gas cylinder, in a field, miles from the nearest town, as the stars came out in the clear night's sky.